


Starting with the Filth

by flutter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-17
Updated: 2005-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutter/pseuds/flutter





	Starting with the Filth

Flood.  
  
That's what a group of onlookers whispered as they huddled together in conversation at the street’s edge.   
  
“It was the cause of death.”  
  
“My Uncle Walt died in a freak flood too—what a horrible way to die.”  
  
“But it hasn’t rained since March.”  
  
No one else made mention of how the grounds outside were parched or that the cars and houses were covered with thick coats of dirt. Nowhere outside of the house had seen an inch of rain; let alone, a solitary rain drop. It had been the hottest, most dry summer in history, and yet… and yet.  
  
The owner of the house was seventy-four, unmarried, with no children to speak of, though her house had, it seemed, an abundance of cats. There were orange tabbies, brown tabbies, Siamese and tri-colored's—not a black one among them from what could be seen.   
  
A young man, with messy black hair, stood at one of the front windows.   
  
"Maybe if the windows hadn't been sealed, and the doors hadn't been locked, they could have found a way out instead of drowning," he said.   
  
A disgruntled Policeman, passing the young man, disappeared around a corner of the house without paying him any attention.   
  
Whatever happened here, they weren’t going to solve the problem of how, or why, it happened. They’d consider it one more peculiar occurrence in a string of peculiar occurrences.  
  
He turned and peered back in the window of the house. The cats were still inside, still drifting in the water, their fur waving delicately around them, occasionally tangling with crocheted coverlets.  
  
There were twenty-six cats by the young man's count.  
  
Backing away from the house, he found himself at the property’s edge. He tried to look casual as he leaned against a tree trunk, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans. It was there he stood as he watched a parade of people climb a ladder to the second floor window.  
  
The men and women of the Fire Department took their turns climbing, the Fire Department issued ladder groaning slightly under the varying weights. They all wanted to view the body of the house's Mistress, as she had been found in such an odd fashion.  
  
The young man heard fragments of their comments:  
  
“Not rain…”  
  
“…just a bathtub overflow.”  
  
“Look at where she’s…”  
  
As one person came down, the next was immediately reaching for a rung to plant their first foot. And, when each leaned forward, their noses pressed against the window’s glass, their breath leaving fogged circles, they saw an open bathroom door, half-hanging off its hinges.   
  
They all looked past how the carpet looked dry, how no water seeped from the bathroom’s linoleum to the bedroom’s carpet. In the bathroom itself, however, they focused on what they could make out: an arm, from the elbow to hand, lay out over the tub's edge and one leg, propped precariously on the tile of the wall. They refused to note that there were no running taps from what they could see.  
  
When the last of them caught their fill, and the ladder was removed, the young man stood straight, closing his eyes.  
  
Magic could still be felt around the perimeter of the home. He felt the residue of it hover and shimmer, gossamer-winged, over his skin and he shivered. There was no image or sign of magic hung over the house--she wouldn't have mattered to them right now--but magic had been performed. If it hadn’t been them and she hadn’t been able to so much as transfigure a tea kettle into a kitten, then someone else—someone who didn't like non-magical people?  
  
A small gust of hot wind fluttered the ends of his hair and he turned to watch a barn owl descend on top of the mailbox, just feet behind him. He read the name "Figg" spelled out in peeling, stick-on letters; the box had seen better days. Dents and dings were showcased by the sun and there was no doubt the damage had been courtesy of his elephantine cousin, stupidly followed by the bullies he called friends.  
  
A letter was attached to the owl's foot.  
  
When he grabbed it he noticed there was no Sender name, no address, just "Harry Potter, Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging, Surrey." Inside, an unfamiliar scrawl:  
  


> _Everyone you've ever known, starting with the filth.  
>  D.M._


End file.
